


Serving Sizes Are a Myth

by audreycritter



Series: Cor Et Cerebrum [27]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluffish, Gen, alfred is miffed, common ground, girl scout cookies, mentions of homework, no profreading we die like mne, pseudo family bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:39:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Stephanie and Bruce find a small area of common ground.





	

The study is quiet when Stephanie Brown notices Damian Wayne standing in the doorway, looking in at her on the couch and Bruce leaning back in his office chair. Damian’s expression is hard to read, maybe boredom, and he observes them for a minute before speaking.

“I was instructed to inform you that it is dinner time,” Damian says.

“Ugh,” Stephanie says, slumping against the arm of the couch. “Hard pass, but thanks.”

“Tell Alfred we’re skipping dinner,” Bruce says.

There’s a flash of surprise on Damian’s face and then he asks, “Shall I tell him you are ill?”

“I already ate,” Stephanie says, sighing. “And now I’m sick.”

Damian vanishes from the doorway.

“Please don’t vomit on the antique rug,” Bruce says, stretching his legs out on the desk and reclining the chair. It looks like a precarious angle for something with caster wheels, but he keeps it in one place. Stephanie, still hanging over the arm of the couch, is suddenly a little sad that she hardly ever sees him this relaxed and also irrationally angry at his sense of balance. For a brief moment, she wants to leap over the side of the couch and kick the wheels.

She doesn’t move.

Footsteps in the hall, sharp and clicking against the wooden floors, announce Alfred before he enters the room.

“Master Damian said you might be ill,” he says, his polished voice somewhere between worry and suspicion.

“Not ill,” Bruce says. “Steph might be close.”

Alfred’s quick strides carry him across the room in a blink and he’s holding one wrist out to hold against Bruce’s forehead, like Bruce is merely a child, when he catches sight of the contents of the desk trashcan. He freezes.

Stephanie watches languidly, thinking she’d prefer it if she never had to move again.

“Girl Scout cookies,” Alfred says in a hollow tone. “I’ve made maple pork roast and you’re electing to forego it for biscuits.”

“I ate a whole box of Thin Mints,” Steph says from behind the butler, whose spine is rigid as he glares at Bruce.

“She did,” Bruce says, with a hint of admiration.

“Bruce had a box of Samoas and half a box of Tagalongs,” Steph adds, with a similar vein of respect. “I thought for sure the first box would do him in.”

Alfred is thin-lipped now and Bruce has the sense to look slightly apologetic.

“I forgot you were making roast,” he says.

“This is…childish nonsense,” Alfred says in weary resignation.

“It’s a seasonal vice,” Bruce shrugs and closes his eyes.

“A seasonal vice is eggnog,” Alfred snaps, swinging back toward angered. “This is a dalliance with garbage.”

“Al,” Steph says and he turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised. She’s watched Tim falter under that frown. “This is like, one piece of common ground we’ve found in how many years? Don’t talk him out of it. Please.”

Alfred’s expression softens, gradually and minimally. “Very well,” he says. “I will leave you to your idiocy and you can fend for your own dinners when your appetites return.”

“You’re a good man, Alfred,” Bruce says and the butler looks mildly placated.

“Do not sweet talk me, Master Bruce,” he says nonetheless. “I am not beyond giving the roast to the dogs if there is a hint of patronizing from a man whose bottom I diapered.”

“I think it’s time to let that go,” Bruce says, sounding a little pained.

Stephanie grins unabashedly at him.

“Perhaps I will be able to, if you let go of such infantile behavior that I am forced to recall the span of years it has been since those days, to reassure myself.”

“Am I childish?” Steph asks.

“Your relative youth excuses you,” Alfred says, managing to make even this sound like a slight rebuke.

Stephanie still thinks it was worth it anyway.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to serve.” Alfred leaves the room without another word and Stephanie slouches against the cushions of the couch.

“He was pissed,” Stephanie says, feeling a little bad now in the wake of it.

“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “Damn. Roast of all the nights.”

“Do you have regrets?” Stephanie asks, looking over and curious now. She knows from being around long enough that by tomorrow, Alfred will let such a small offense drop and Bruce will apologize in some way without words but with mutual understanding.

For all her self-doubt, Steph has watched and observed and she knows she’s not a stupid person.

“Je ne regrette rien,” Bruce answers. A second later, he opens his eyes and regards her. “You?”

“Nope,” Steph says. “Honestly? I wasn’t even paying attention. I was just doing that stupid homework until I reached for the tray and they were gone. They’re so addictive.”

“Sudoku,” Bruce says, motioning to the desk.

“Huh,” Steph says. “You were doing that bitchy thing with your mouth. I thought it was office stuff.”

“I have,” Bruce pauses, “a ‘bitchy’ thing I do with my face?”

“You and Tim both,” Steph says, reaching out with one foot and flipping her psychology notebook shut. “It’s eerie.”

“I think you’re making this up,” Bruce says, eyes narrowing.

“If you don’t believe me, ask Selina,” Steph says with a wave of her hand. “You do it when you’re wearing the you-know-what at night. She knows.”

“I’m not discussing this with Selina,” Bruce says, his words a little hard and warning. Steph matches his slight glare and then turns her head to stare up at the carved trim along the ceiling.

“Your loss,” Steph says casually.

When she sneaks a glance, he’s pretending to read something on his phone. A moment later, he throws it on the desk and grumbles.

“I’m not upset I ate the whole box,” Steph says in the silence that follows. “And I’m not gonna puke because I hate it. But it might be a while before I can move again, fair warning.”

“No judgment,” Bruce replies.

“Now you’re the one making stuff up,” Steph shoots back without thinking. But instead of glowering, Bruce laughs.

“How are you doing?” he asks a second later and Steph is caught so off-guard she doesn’t process it immediately.

Then she motions at herself, slouched on the couch and wearing old leggings and a baggy, faded hoodie with chewed strings. Her hair is in a messy bun and she didn’t even bother with make-up for just running cookies over to the manor and doing homework. There’s a faint bruise on her right cheek from a fight.

“Sorry, was there anything about this,” she asks, “that gave you the impression that I am not perfect at all times?”

“Your sweatshirt has holes in the sleeves,” he says, without looking.

“For my arms, stupid,” Steph says with a smirk.

“In the cuffs,” he says.

“For my thumbs! Those are intentional! They’re even hemmed,” she says, holding her sleeve up in protest and wiggling her thumb as proof. “God, it’s like you’ve never worn a normal shirt.”

“Don’t call me ‘God,’” he answers. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

Steph bites her lip so he doesn’t have the satisfaction of knowing he made her laugh.

“I’m fine,” she says after he closes his eyes again, still leaning back in the desk chair. “Why?”

“Cass is out of the country,” Bruce answers without moving. “Tim’s been at the office a lot. Every time I see you out of suit, you’ve got homework you’re working on. This should come as a surprise to you, but there are areas where I am not an expert.”

“I had no idea,” Steph says dryly. “You had me completely fooled.”

“Checking in on people is one of my weak spots. I’m working on it.”

“I’m just practice then,” Steph says flippantly, to hide the wary warmness in her heart. She’s often mad at herself for wanting him to care at the same time she stills holds out hope for it, even though he’s not her father and never has stepped into that role like he did with Cass. Stephanie knows it’s complicated; there were other factors, not the least of which were her own parents and her early relationship with Tim.

“I have to practice somewhere,” he says.

“Want me to pretend to be distraught?” she asks.

“Only if you think it will be helpful. I won’t say I’m looking forward to it,” Bruce answers. There’s a brief pause and he says, “Really, Stephanie. Are you doing alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, looking down at her hands sitting in her lap. “I’m tired and busy but I’m okay.”

“Good,” he says. “Let me know if that changes.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Thanks.”

The silence that follows feels less strained that she is expecting it to and it is then that she realizes it is because she doesn’t feel the pressing need to escape. This house, which used to feel so foreboding and oppressive to her, is now sort of homey in its vastness. She’s gone from being on her guard in almost every room to being able to expect welcome and someone to talk to or hang out with.

After years of understanding she was on the fringe of belonging, fighting even for that spot on the outer rim, it’s startling to blink at the homework spread on an expensive teak coffee table and comprehend how much things have changed almost without her noticing.

She walks in the house without knocking, crashes in Cass’ room when she’s beat, helps herself to food, studies while coasting on the padded cable TV subscription. She no longer waits for Tim or Cass to insist she come over, she picks up Damian for random excursions, she hauls her laundry over without asking when her washer breaks like it does once a month. When her car makes expensive noises, Jason looks at it for her, and Dick spars with her while she waits. Alfred sends her back to campus with leftovers and Dev always seems to know when she needs ice cream or a chat.

She’s not used to Bruce asking how’s doing, that’s for sure, but even her long-coddled frustration with him has faded to acceptance and an understanding that despite the past, if she needs help, he’ll show up.

And even if she’ll go eat dinner with her mom and go shopping for shoes or complain about school, Steph realizes that this tall manor that used to annoy her has sort of become a lot like home.

A lot, lot like a home.

She swallows and blinks back tears, internally cursing hormones, and sits up to straighten out her textbook and notebook.

“What class?” Bruce asks and some part of her brain hears Tim’s voice in her head from the time she overheard him arguing _You can’t just be a Bard, it’s a useless class, I don’t care if it is a mod_ with Dev.

“Psychobiology of Sleep,” Steph answers, flipping her textbook open and shut idly. “It’s actually really interesting. This isn’t an official diagnosis, but I don’t think Tim ever moves past the first sleep stage.”

“I rarely do,” Bruce says. “On purpose.”

“Of course you would know how to do something like that,” Steph mutters. “I don’t think I have to tell you that’s, like, crazy unhealthy, right?”

“I am aware,” Bruce says. “But I’m still alive.”

“If you tell me you’ll sleep when you’re dead, I think I’ll puke on the rug just to spite you,” Steph says picking up her notebook and scanning the page of notes she just made. She sighs and reads the vocabulary list again. “Ugh. I may have minor regrets. I don’t even want to know how many calories it was.”

“1280 for you. 1470 for me,” Bruce answers.

“I said I don’t want to know!” Steph exclaims, putting her hands over her ears.

“With as much as you’ll burn off on patrol, does it matter?” Bruce asks, amused.

“Probably not,” Steph says, lowering her hands and reading the terms again without feeling like she’s comprehending any of them. Even just glancing at the descriptions of sleep stages makes her drowsy. “I think I’m going to take a nap. Can I sleep here or should I drag myself up to Cass’ room?”

“Here is fine,” Bruce says, standing and stretching. “I’m going to go eat dinner if Alfred will let me.”

“There is something wrong with you,” Steph says seriously, throwing her notebook back on the table. “Like sometimes I think you’re probably not human. And if you weren’t human, how would you even know for sure?”

“I’ve told Tim I’m not a robot,” Bruce says, capping the pen on his desk.

“That’s what a robot would say,” Steph says, stretching out all the way on the couch.

“That’s what Tim said,” Bruce answers. “Have a good nap.”

“I’m texting Dev! I’m asking how certain he is that you’re organic matter from earth. He’d know.”

“He’d cover for me,” Bruce says, flicking the study light off.

“Bruce?” Steph says, pulling her hoodie up to block out residual light.

“Hm?”

“Thanks for gorging yourself on cookies with me.”

There’s a long silence and Steph starts to think he didn’t hear her, or already left the room.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for bringing them over.”

Steph grins. “Same time, next year?”

“I’ll put it on the calendar,” Bruce says and then the door shuts behind him.

Stephanie decides that she doesn’t have any regrets after all.


End file.
